Shattered Remains
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: The road to recovery is not one of speed or comfort; rather, it is one of frustrated screams and awkward silences. Eventual Reunion. Johnlock.
1. Year 1

**I know that there are tons of reunion fanfics out there, but I couldn't resist trying to write my own. Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

It has been a year since Sherlock threw himself off of the roof. John is making his monthly trek to the grave of his best friend. He locks the door to 221B Baker Street and gets a cab. He tells the cabbie which cemetery to take him, and leans back into the seat.

John doesn't go in cabs much anymore, too many memories of certain sociopaths and murderous cabbies. The only reason he decided to get a cab was because he didn't mind being assaulted by these memories today. He looks at the empty seat next to him.

He doesn't know what he was expecting to see, but as he looks at the worn seat, disappointment floods him. John snaps his head to the window, and doesn't look anywhere else for the rest of the cab ride.

When he gets to the cemetery, he limps to the familiar gravestone. John stands there for what feels like hours as he stares at the name on the cold stone. SHERLOCK HOLMES. John feels like there is something he is supposed to say, but he just sinks to the ground, puts his back against the gravestone, and weeps.

_Why did you leave me here? Why did you leave me all alone? _He mentally screams. He wants to say this aloud, but he can't force the words out.

John just cries. There is no dramatic downpour like there is in the movies. The sun is still shining, the birds are still chirping, silence is still ringing throughout the cemetery. Nothing has changed. The Earth still revolves around the Sun (how could Sherlock delete that from his mind?). So why does John's world feel as though it has been smashed to bits?

_Just one more miracle. _

John isn't sure whether or not he said this aloud, but he wishes for it all the same. Why did the one person who seemed to defy death itself succumb to its darkness? Why couldn't John have died instead of Sherlock?

He has tried to end his life already, that didn't work out (he can hear Sherlock's disdainful _obviously_).

Three months ago, John had snapped. Looking back at that day, he cannot remember what was particularly devastating, but he knows that he had been pushed over the very thin line between sanity and insanity.

John took his gun, the same gun Sherlock had used to shoot the wall when he was bored (oh how John would give anything to hear Sherlock's annoying rants about being bored, or just hear any of his monologues), and held it to his head, his hand steady for the first time since Sherlock's death.

Before he could pull the trigger, Mrs. Hudson had come into the flat and, with an anguished cry, wrenched the gun out of John's hand with surprising strength. She had admonished John for a full hour before tearfully hugging him and leaving the flat. He hadn't tried to kill himself since.

Excluding his attempt at suicide, life had gone on with painful normalcy since the fall. The press abandoned Sherlock's story when something better came along. Mycroft still abducted John every two weeks; their meetings were filled with silence. Greg met up with John weekly at the local pub. Mrs. Hudson still checked on John (she had before the attempt, but afterwards she was a bit more vigilant). Harry still called every so often. The only person who seemed a bit different was Molly; she avoided John as much as she could politely manage to.

Only John himself felt as though his whole world had fallen apart. He gave up dating. He hardly ever left the flat outside of work, Greg's pub meetings, and Mycroft. His old friends no longer contacted him. He couldn't leave 221B Baker Street. He tried, really he did; he went back to his old apartment for three days before rushing back to Baker Street. His limp was back and worse than ever. His nightmares had returned, and he didn't know how to cope with them, much less make them go away. After the war, he had been broken into pieces that Sherlock had repaired, but after his death, John felt like someone had taken him, shattered him into pieces tinier than sand and scattered them across the sea.

Why had Sherlock said all of that crap about being a fake? John of all people knew that was a lie. No one could fake that much brilliance. No one could fake being that annoyingly psychotic, much less keep a façade like that for months. So then what had really happened on the roof? Moriarty was found dead, maybe he forced Sherlock to jump? What could have forced the high-functioning sociopath to leap off of a building (he ignores the tiny part of him not blinded by rage that whispers: _you of all people know he had feelings_)? Why couldn't Sherlock have come to John if something had been bothering him enough to commit suicide? Was all of it a lie, all of the little moments where John saw that Sherlock thought of him as a friend, or when he called John his only friend? If Sherlock couldn't even confide in his "friend", then why had he let John into his life? Sherlock was absolutely brilliant; he didn't need John's medical expertise. He didn't need a flat-mate; his death revealed Sherlock's enormous amount of money to John when Mycroft announced that it all went to him.

John's anger ebbs, replaced by the familiar sorrow. Even if Sherlock didn't need John, John needs him. Sherlock had given him more than a place to stay, full use of his leg, and reprieve from nightmares; he had given his life meaning again. Sherlock had shown John that life didn't have to be boring or mediocre. John was able to see the beauty of life again (ironic because with Sherlock he mainly saw death), and it was all thanks to the consulting detective.

He sighs, noticing for the first time that the sun was setting. Hauling himself off of the cold ground, he turns to look at the gravestone one last time. He reaches out his hand and caresses the top of the stone before leaving the cemetery.

John ignores the urge to get a cab, and forces himself to walk back to his flat. His leg hurt the whole way, but he still refused to get a cab.

When he reaches the flat, John looks up at the sky. During the walk, the sun had completely set, and the stars were visible.

_What does that matter? So we go 'round the sun. If we went 'round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference!_

Despite the pain the memory brings, John giggles a little. The stars seem to twinkle a bit more, as if they too laugh at Sherlock's ignorance. He could hear the detective now, telling him how moronic he was for thinking the stars could laugh. He sighs again and enters the flat.

* * *

Across the street, a tall, pale, lanky man watches as a man looks up at the stars before entering a flat. He stares for a minute longer, and if you knew him really well, you would have seen a wistful glint in those cold mint-green eyes.

And if you had really good hearing, you might've heard the man whisper:

_I'm so sorry, my dear Watson. _


	2. Year 2

John's eyes flew open. He could've sworn that he heard footsteps in the flat. He stayed in his bed for a few more minutes, straining to hear the sound. Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister for the weekend; if she had come home early, she would have made her presence known.

Mycroft would have barged into his room and woken him up without a second thought; Lestrade wouldn't be in the flat this late at night without John's permission (or at least without his knowledge).

It couldn't be _him. He_ was dead. But his specters weren't; they had begun haunting John a little while after the first anniversary of _his_ death.

Although John hated them, he couldn't resist pretending Sherlock was actually there. With those thoughts in mind, he trudged down to the kitchen.

No one, not even the apparition, could be seen in the flat. John sighed, pausing in the middle of the flat. Something wasn't right...

He heard someone clear their throat, someone he couldn't forget no matter how hard he tried.

Moriarty.

Before John could reach for his gun, Moriarty surged forward and stabbed him in the stomach.

"I told Sherlock I'd _burn _the heart out of him, but I will just have to settle for this." Moriarty grinned, looming over John's body as he sunk to the ground.

* * *

John sits up in his bed, breathing heavily. Despite having this nightmare almost every night for the past two years, he still feels the same sickening grief every time he wakes up.

He realizes now how foolish he was to hope that, since it was the second anniversary of the fall, he would be spared from the dreams.

After John showers, feeling slightly better, he pulls on his favorite jumper and goes to the kitchen for breakfast.

Sherlock is standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a sheet, staring at John. He huffs. John really doesn't feel like going through this _again,_ this painful evidence that his mind was broken. So, instead of engaging him like John normally does, he walks through the apparition. As he walks into the kitchen, Sherlock dissipates into a silky smoke, lazily spinning through the air and spreading throughout the flat.

He ignores the remains of Sherlock, and sits down to breakfast. He has a long day ahead of him.

* * *

Mary insists on taking John out for lunch after his morning shift. She knows what today is, and she will leave him alone for the rest of the day, but Mary wanted to have lunch with him just to make sure he was okay (he would never truly be okay again).

They eat in a comfortable silence, broken only by Lestrade dropping by them. They exchange pleasantries, Mary and Lestrade silently communicating with their eyes when they think John isn't looking.

John gets up, hastily but not rudely, leaves money for his lunch, and exits the restaurant.

Since the cemetery is close to the restaurant he was eating at, John walks to his final stop for the day.

His monthly visits still were comprised of silence, John thinking about the past or what could have been, dedicating the precious hours to his dead flatmate.

It feels different, though, and not just because this is the anniversary. For the first time, John actually wants to speak, rather than bask in the warmth of his memories.

He sits down in front of the grave, also a first, and sighs.

"It's been two years. I am still waiting for that miracle. I still see you, every where. It was great at first, but now it just hurts. All I can do when I see your apparitions is remember how much of an idiot I was for thinking that you would come back.

"Uh well that wasn't what I meant. I will always wait for you to return It's just, when I see you, you are always doing something ridiculous. Sometimes I see you while I'm shopping, and you are in only your bed sheets. It makes me feel moronic, that I would think you would return in sheets. One of the times when I hadn't fully comprehended that they weren't real, I was so excited that I ran to it. I ended up running into a food stand." John chuckles.

He begins talking to the gravestone about the first year of Sherlock's absence, leaving nothing out. When he mentions the attempt at suicide, it's done in stutters and awkward pauses, but it feels good, impossibly so, to get it off of his chest.

"I'm still angry with you; I still have questions. But I have accepted that not all of my questions (if any) will ever be answered. I will always be there, though, waiting, even if I am still hurt."

After describing the first year, John pauses, and tells him about his second year of grieving.

He doesn't leave anything out this time either.

John tells Sherlock about Mary, beautiful brilliant Mary, and how they met in the front of the cemetery (her brother had recently passed away) a month after the first year anniversary. He talks about how he, blinded with tears, hadn't been paying attention to where he was going and as a result had bumped into her.

It was the first time he had been able to feel something other than grief; he was drawn to Mary.

After John had apologized profusely, they exchanged pleasantries and numbers. They began meeting up with each other on a weekly basis. For the first few weeks, they had talked mainly about the people that they were grieving. After those weeks, they began actually talking about themselves and became really close. John asked her out and, for two weeks, they dated. It didn't work out though, they had more of a brother-sister relationship, so they went back to being friends.

Mary had told him, rather gently that, besides the mutual disinterest, she broke up with him because she believed John was still in love with Sherlock. John had brushed aside her words and ignored the stirring in his heart.

He didn't omit this from his verbal purge, but he didn't comment on the explanation either.

John talks about Lestrade, how they had become really good friends (though no one could ever be a better friend to John than Sherlock), often meeting up more than their weekly pub visit.

He tells the gravestone about the time when, five months ago, Lestrade met Mary.

It had been at the pub, both men exhausted from a long day at their jobs. John had dealt with a ridiculous amount of flu patients, while Lestrade was struggling with a puzzling murder case that would have taken Sherlock two hours tops to solve.

Lestrade was in the middle of describing the crime scene to a fascinated John when Mary, recognizing John, came and said hello. John remembers fondly how they had flirted, with shy but clearly mutual interest, and agreed to lunch the following day.

"I forgot to tell you, you know how I am with remembering details, that Lestrade had divorced his wife shortly after the fall." He fondly remarks. He could have sworn he heard Sherlock's quiet chuckle.

John continues, talking about Mycroft and how he still abducts him for awkward meetings still comprised of silence.

He tells the gravestone about Harry, how she was finally sober and back with Clara.

When John's monologue comes to an end, he sits in silence, noticing for the first time that he had been crying. His shirt is wet near the neck where all of the tears had fallen, his reflection in the polished stone hinting at a puffy red face.

John stays there for twenty minutes, listening to the wind ruffle the leaves on the trees, the birds chirping, and the gentle sigh of the breeze moving through the grass and his clothes.

He stands up, and fondly caresses the top of the gravestone.

"I don't think I will ever stop waiting for that miracle." His voice, although filled with sadness and hope, doesn't waver.

He looks up from the grave, at a willow tree not too far away, and sees Sherlock standing under its branches.

Unlike most of the apparitions, he is wearing his trademark scarf, coat, and suit. He stares at John, almost like what the real Sherlock would have looked at him like, except his gaze lacks icy apathy. Instead, Sherlock looks at him with eyes broadcasting sorrow, fear, and love. While John always knew Sherlock was human and had feelings, he never let John see this much emotion; he didn't let the rest of the world see any. This fact causes John to see that this is just another ghost; he almost sobs at this thought, they never looked this lifelike, this _real. _

So John looks for a little while longer, pretending that this is his flatmate, pretending his miracle came, before turning around, and leaving the cemetery.

He goes straight back to the flat, and spends the rest of the night staring at the violin, remembering rather than hearing the music Sherlock seemed to play just for John after a case had been successfully closed.

How he would give anything to hear Sherlock screeching with the violin at three in the morning again.

* * *

Even though the sun has set and the moon is in the middle of the sky, the pale lanky man under the willow tree does not move.

He relives the moment his cherished friend looked up from the grave and saw him under the tree.

He hadn't ever felt such joy, relief, fear or sadness since he was a child.

Of course he heard everything John said. The willow tree wasn't extremely far away from the grave, and his hearing had always been better than most people's.

Hearing John talk about how horrible the first year was made Sherlock almost regret faking his death. He couldn't bear to hear his friend talk of almost committing suicide, that alone made Sherlock feel a strange mix of fear that John would end his life and gratitude that he was still alive. The fear made him empathize with what John was going through, though he knew it didn't come close to John's grief. The gratitude made him want to go to John and explain why he left and promise that he was never going to leave again. Sadly, his job was not quite complete, but he strengthened his resolution to return as soon as possible.

He thinks about what he felt when he first heard John mention Mary. Sorrow and jealousy had reared their ugly heads, John was his and his only, but once he heard John talk about their friendship and Lestrade dating Mary, he sank with relief.

He goes over the words John repeated that Mary told him when they stopped dating. Could it be that John actually loved him, the sociopath? Sure they had a strong friendship, one even he knew was unlike the stereotypical relationship, but love?

Could John really love him? Could he love John back? That question was answered with a resounding _yes,_ the realization shaking him to the core.

He pushes these thoughts into the wing of his mind palace dedicated entirely to John (it was this wing that had hosted some of his knowledge of the solar system; he deleted it to make room for his many observations of his flatmate). If he kept thinking like this, he would never be able to continue the job at hand.

He allows himself to think back to one last thing, John's little piece of information about Lestrade's marital status. While the joke itself hadn't been really funny (another thing John had stopped doing because of his actions), the obviously fond tone made him chuckle and hope swell throughout his body.

He sighs, finally aware that hours have past since he heard John's words, saw his gaunt face, sorrow filled eyes, and obvious limp. He pushes aside the pain that came with the realization that John thought he was looking at a specter rather than his best friend (another thing that was his fault). He moves to leave the cemetery, but stops and walks up to his grave. He stands behind the stone, pretending to face John.

Sherlock touches the top of the stone, caressing it as if John's hand was still there.

He turns around, and walks out of the cemetery with a newfound determination to finish what he started.

_I will come back once I have finished the job. I will return, and, if you let me, I will do my best to earn your trust once more. Wait for me. Please wait._


	3. Year 3

John woke with a start. He sat up and grabbed his alarm clock. It was flashing 6:15; John was supposed to get up at 7. He laid back down. Although he knew that he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, John refused to get out of bed. He just wanted to relax a little before he had to officially start the day.

It was going to be an emotionally taxing day. Not only was his morning busy with last-minute touches for Lestrade and Mary's wedding (which was a week from today), it was also the three year anniversary of the fall. All he wanted to do was go to the grave and discuss his problems with his dead best friend. But with the wedding planning taking up the morning (lets face it, it will probably take up some of the afternoon as well) and Harry demanding his presence at her house in the afternoon to catch up on things (he was pretty sure it was just to make sure he was doing okay (how could he possibly be okay)), he was pretty sure there wouldn't be much time for a visit.

Ever since the second year anniversary, John would talk to the grave on his monthly visits. It was strangely soothing to verbalize all of his thoughts, even if it was to a dead man.

But Sherlock wasn't just a dead man to John. He was so much more; Sherlock was his flatmate, his best friend, the man who knew him better than his own family did, and the only person he would ever love.

Watching Lestrade and Mary grow in their relationship made John realize something. All of the things they did, whether it was playful or serious, reminded John of his relationship with Sherlock.

John was definitely not gay. It was only Sherlock that he was attracted to; he had never been attracted to other males and, after acknowledging his feelings for the detective, women were not as appealing as they used to be.

When Lestrade proposed four months ago, it made John ache for all that he could have had with Sherlock. Of course, most likely John's feelings were unrequited (it would be foolish to hope otherwise), but it was a wonderful thought nonetheless.

He looked at the clock again. 6:25. He sighs, and hauls himself out of the bed. If he isn't going back to sleep, he might as well get a head start on the day.

* * *

It was amusing to see Greg this nervous. His hands were shaking slightly as he went tuxedo shopping with his best man, and he was uncharacteristically quiet.

"Wasn't this supposed to be done earlier?"

"Probably." Greg sighs. "But you know how busy I have been, between the cases taking longer than normal to solve and Donovan's maternity leave. I wish I had given Anderson time off as well."

They chuckle, despite the Greg's seriousness.

After the fitting was complete, with the groom in a nice black tuxedo and John wearing a grey one, they went to check on Mary. She refused to tell them what she had going on this morning, but it was obvious when they met up at a restaurant for lunch that she was exhausted.

Greg and Mary hug, clearly wanting to kiss but abstaining because they were out in public. They were also trying not to be too affectionate towards each other in front of John; they didn't want to shove their happiness in his face when he lost the love of his life. John wasn't an idiot, he had figured out what they were doing shortly after they started, but he knew they meant well and, deep down, he was thankful.

They start speaking about the wedding plans, and John let himself daydream a little when he realized that there wasn't much he could contribute to the conversation. He knew they weren't shutting him out intentionally, and John is a little grateful that he could take some time to let his mind wander.

John wonders what it would have been like to be engaged to Sherlock Holmes. Who would have proposed? If they had been in a relationship that serious, he was sure that they would have both wanted to be the one to propose. It probably would have been Sherlock; his impatience overruling a fear of messing up a proposal, after all, he didn't seem like much of a romantic.

Since he couldn't even begin to imagine what the detective would have done to propose, John wonders who would have done more of the wedding planning. Would it have been Sherlock, because he wanted to be in control, or would it have been John, because he probably knew more about weddings than Sherlock?

His thoughts were interrupted when Greg's phone rang. The inspector looked at the screen, puzzled.

"If you will excuse me, this call looks important." His voice shook as he practically sprinted away from the table.

"Who could that have been?" John inquires.

Mary shrugs, as befuddled as John. Their food arrives, and they eat in a pleasant, if not a little worried, silence.

Ten minutes later, Greg came back to the table, clearly shaken.

"What was that all about?" Mary asks.

"Oh, it was just something about a case at work."

He is obviously lying, but Mary and John didn't try to push the truth out of him. Mary probably would be informed tonight, and Greg would tell John when he could get around to it.

The rest of the lunch was in silence. After they finished, John tries to pay for his meal but Greg informs him that he already paid for all of their lunches. John thanks him, then exits the restaurant.

* * *

Harry opens the door to her flat, grinning widely when she saw that John is at the door.

"I wasn't sure if you were coming."

"Of course I'd come!" _Even though I would rather be at my friend's grave_ he thought with a sigh. He forces a smile on his face. Harry opens the door wider and gestures for him to enter.

He steps in the flat. He can't get used to how clean the flat was, even though Harry had moved into Clara's flat.

During the time Harry left Clara, she had lived in various flats, getting kicked out of every one either because in her drunken state she was causing a ruckus or because she trashed the flat.

He sits on a nice couch, no beer bottles in sight, and exchanged pleasantries with Clara. When Harry left the room, he thanks Clara for all that she had done for his wayward sister. She smiles, blushing, and tells John that it wasn't just her that inspired Harry to be better. Apparently, watching her brother handle the death of the person closest to him without sinking into a drunken haze made Harry realize that if her brother could keep his wits despite such a devastating event, then she could stop drinking. John is shocked; he had no idea his actions had such an impact on her. He is thankful that his suicide attempt was kept a secret between him, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft (at the time he wasn't aware that the brother had cameras in their flat, otherwise he would've disabled them beforehand).

John stays around much longer than he anticipated, chatting with his sister and her reunited wife. They were clearly happy and everything was going great for them. It is hard for him to watch the two, clearly in love, as they told him of their excitement for the wedding. He had hoped that he covered his sadness well, but he could tell Harry had noticed because she looked at him with pity in her eyes and quickly changed the subject.

He realizes how thankful he is that Greg and Mary toned it down around him. John would never admit it to anyone, but it made him guiltily jealous that his sister got a happy ending, despite her addiction being the destroyer of their relationship, while his friendship with Sherlock was completely demolished (though he was unsure of the cause of the rash suicide) and he couldn't do anything to repair it.

The worst part is, the last words he said to Sherlock in person were angry shouts calling the detective a monster. He wishes he could take it back; he wishes he had been able to tell Sherlock he was sorry on the phone before the fall.

When a couple of hours had passed since he entered their flat, John says goodbye to his sister and her wife and leaves.

John sighs, relieved to be finally on his way to his best friend.

* * *

John walks once again to the cemetery and down the path to the grave. He looks at the willow tree, but the apparition wasn't there.

Since the second anniversary, the specter would show up to every single monthly visit. Sometimes, he would be under the willow tree. Other times, he looked like the gardener trimming the hedges.

He always knew, though, that he was a figment of his imagination. So he never paid much attention to it, often only sparing it a passing glance as he made his way to the gravestone. It was easier to talk to than the apparitions. It would have hurt more to unleash his sorrow to the specter; he would succumb to the urge to hug it and the embrace would encompass air rather than flesh. John plopped himself in front of the black gravestone and began talking.

He talks of the wedding next week, how nervous and excited Greg and Mary are, and how great his sister is doing.

After he finishes his monologue about his social life, he begins the long stream of angry questions that seemed to flow out of him freely the past three visits that hadn't arose since the first year anniversary.

When that was done, he sits in silence and begins to cry.

He weeps, not making a sound as the tears streamed down his face and on the earth. He repositions himself, leaning his back against the gravestone and continues crying.

An hour passed. His tears stopped flowing ten minutes ago; he now sits in grief-ridden silence before getting up and caressing the top of the stone.

"I love you, you git." John said fondly, tears blinding his vision once again. It is the first time he ever vocalized his feelings, though he had accepted them a while ago, and it felt right. He regrets that it took him this long to vocalize his affection for the detective.

He pulls his hand away when he noticed that the apparition had mirrored John's sitting position. On the other side of the stone, Sherlock sat with his back pressed to it and his hands cradling his head.

John took a step back as the specter stood. He didn't want to make him disappear, so John made sure he was a reasonable distance away before turning around and drinking in the sight of his friend.

He isn't sure how long he stood there staring, but when he looks up, the sun is gone and the moon is making its slow journey across the star-ridden sky. He grins at the twinkling heavens.

"Beautiful isn't it?" John says. Although this Sherlock never responded directly to him, sometimes, he could hear amused chuckles when John said something funny.

John shakes his head, looks one last time at his friend, and trudges back to the empty flat.

* * *

The pale lanky man is frozen by the grave. The last time he had stared that long at his best friend, and been stared at back, was the last anniversary, when he hid under the willow tree.

It still hurt to know that his beloved friend thought that he was an apparition, but when he heard John speak to him in such a familiar way, he was thankful for the misconception.

The time for Sherlock to reveal himself to John had come. Moriarty's web had finally been unraveled and destroyed.

But he is nervous. How would his flatmate act when he returned? Would John refuse to let him be a part of his world ever again? Would he leave Sherlock for good? Or would he welcome him back into his life? He knew John would be upset, he had every right to be furious, but how angry would he be?

When Sherlock heard John say he loved him, he felt a strange fluttering in his stomach, his head was spinning, and his head was in an uproar. At first, shock and disbelief flooded his body, but once they ebbed, love and hope took their place.

Would this be taken back when he revealed himself to John? Would this simple phrase that had the power to make or break Sherlock be reconsidered when John realized his friend was alive (though not well) this whole time?

When John stared at Sherlock, his heart hammered in his chest and his palms were clammy, yet he couldn't look away from the army doctor.

When John made the comment about the sky, Sherlock barely restrained himself from replying. Instead, he stood in silence and watched as his flatmate looked at him one last time before leaving the cemetery.

Sherlock sighs. It wouldn't be long before he revealed himself. He turns around, and walks out of the graveyard.

_Keep holding on John. I will be with you soon... _


	4. The Wedding

John sighs, looking at himself in the mirror.

Today is the day Greg and Mary are getting married. He couldn't be happier for his friends.

With a slight smile, he walks out of the flat, thankful that, on this particular day, his limp was practically nonexistent.

As he hails and enters a cab, he thinks about the past week. Greg and Mary had been acting a bit off; John would find them whispering excitedly and shut up if he was near them, or at lunch he would look up and they would be smiling at him looking as though they were proud parents with the perfect Christmas gift for their child.

John shakes his head. It was probably just the pre-wedding jitters getting to their heads.

When he arrives at the wedding, he notices how amazing everything looked. He rushes to the room where Greg was waiting.

Greg is standing in front of the mirror wearing his tux, looking scared out of his wits, yet happier than John had ever seen him.

"You would think that, since I have already done this before, I wouldn't be nervous."

"Well, it is a momentous occasion; you have every right to be nervous."

"I know, its different though. She's the one."

They stand in silence for a little while longer, when the wedding planner pops her head into the room.

"Get in positions, the wedding is about to begin!"

She leaves, and Greg nervously exhales. John gives him what he hoped was an encouraging grin before the two exit the room.

* * *

When Mary walks down the isle, John has never seen her look more radiant in the two years he knew her. She is blushing and smiling as she walks to the alter, gazing at Greg in adoration. She is the quintessence of a blushing bride.

The Wedding March is performed by an extremely gifted violinist. John groans internally. Could this wedding get any more torturous? Hearing the march breaks John's mental dam holding back all thoughts of Sherlock. With the swiftness of a raging river, the detective bursts into John's mind.

Who would have walked down the aisle at their wedding? Would Sherlock have stood in the groom's spot and John walk down the aisle to him? Or vise versa? He shoves these thoughts away; this is no time to wish that his friend was alive, not in front of all of these people. The last thing he wants is a repeat of the first month after Sherlock's fall, pitying looks and constant are-you-okay questions everywhere he went.

John looks at the person leading her down the aisle. Her dad had been dead since she was fifteen, who would be beside her? He reluctantly pulls his eyes from Mary, and feels as though someone has punched him in the gut.

Why? Why him? Why here? Why now, in front of these people? Granted, Greg and Mary had a small wedding, so there weren't that many people present, but still!

Why did his mind have to make Sherlock the one who was leading Mary down the aisle?

His heart is beating so fast he is afraid it will explode. He takes a deep breath, trying desperately to remain calm.

Greg looks at John, and John has no idea what his close friend is about to say.

* * *

Mary looks at herself in the mirror, admiring her dress. She is excited, more so than she has ever been in her whole life, but not just because of the wedding.

When a certain tall, lanky man practically ambushed Mary a week ago, her plans for the wedding did a complete 180.

While the wedding was originally going to be medium sized, that morning she was convinced to make it as small as possible, allowing only close family members and trusted friends to witness their union, making the guest list a whopping twenty people. Her father had been offended when she said someone else was going to take her down the alter, but when she explained why it would be the detective taking his place, her father understood.

There had been quite a few uncomfortable changes, but they are worth it.

Not only was the guest list shrunken, the people getting wedded doubled (hopefully).

Mary is imagining John's reaction, when the presumably dead man walks in and begins pacing.

He is extremely nervous. What if John rejects him, casting him out of his life for good? What if everything goes wrong? What if-

"Don't worry, you look fine." Mary ruefully interrupts his thoughts.

"Shouldn't it be I assuring you of your appearance?"

Mary laughs, and walks up to Sherlock. "Don't worry, everything will be fine."

He nods his head, hands shaking. He holds them behind his back, feeling oddly vulnerable.

The wedding planner pops her head in, and announces that it is time.

Sherlock takes Mary, exhales, and begins the nerve-wracking journey to the aisle.

* * *

When Sherlock sees John standing at the alter next to Greg, it takes much more self control than he expected to not rush to the alter.

He searches John's eyes, watching as disbelief morphs into pain and sorrow.

He wants more than anything to run to John and assure him of- Assure him of what? That he is alive? That he loves him back? That his absence was predominantly fueled by the need to keep his beloved doctor safe?

He watches as John turns to Greg, trying desperately to mask his emotions. Sherlock is overwhelmed with guilt, pain, fear and love. Sherlock hasn't felt this much in his whole life; the three years that he was lost without his blogger made him feel far too much, yet he didn't want it to stop. He couldn't remember what his life was like without his emotions, without his John.

All too soon (or not quickly enough), Sherlock reaches the alter.


	5. The Ceremony

Greg looks at John.

"You aren't imagining anything. He is here, in the flesh. We will talk more about this later. I am sorry I couldn't tell you. I only knew for a week." Greg consoles, his words jumbled and rushed in John's chaotic mind.

"It's okay. I'm fine. I'm fine." John whispers, more to himself than Greg.

Sherlock and Mary finally reach the alter. John glances one last time at Sherlock before looking at the happy couple.

The ceremony is longer than John thought it would be. He tries his best to concentrate on what is being said, but his mind keeps wandering to the man standing where the maid of honor should be. John cannot do much of anything; he is numb. He cannot believe that his friend, his flatmate, his... his Sherlock is alive. He feels wave after wave of intense emotion: hope, pain, anger, frustration, grief, doubt, hope, love, anger, fear. This cocktail of emotion leaves John breathless. He is afraid to look at Sherlock, afraid he will break down in front of everyone, afraid he will mess everything up, and afraid most of all that he would reach forward only to touch smoke.

At the thought of this being a dream, one that would devastate John far more than any of his nightmares, his knees buckle. He stands upright, but not without feeling a shaky hand grab his arm, steadying him. John looks up, befuddled. Greg and Mary hadn't noticed (cue internal sigh of relief), leaving only...

John looks at the hand still clasping his arm. It is pale, flecked with scars old and new, shaking like a leaf in a storm. John gently releases his arm, unable to look into the familiar eyes boring into him, scrutinizing John as though he hasn't seen him in years (which for all John knows could be true).

He is still agonizingly close to John; he can smell the familiar blend of cologne, chemicals and mint that is uniquely Sherlock. John holds his breath, feeling like Tantalus, except instead of food and water eluding him, it is his flatmate. He is worried that if he gets too close, Sherlock will disappear.

John freezes. Sherlock had touched him... He held his arm... He was _real._

His mind is buzzing, disbelief and hope simultaneously paralyzing him. John couldn't move if he wanted to. The chaotic jumble of emotions cause a single tear to fall from his unfocused eyes. John hears a low voice whispering something to him in what sounded like a consoling tone, but John cannot understand the words.

The ceremony has ended, and he can barely feel the hand leading him out of the chapel and into an empty room.

John is alone with Sherlock.

* * *

For the first time, Sherlock's hearing (and lip reading) failed him.

Walking to the alter, he watches as John yanked his eyes from Sherlock to Greg. Sherlock has no idea what Greg told him, but John didn't look at Sherlock for the rest of the ceremony.

Having John this close was torturous. It kills Sherlock to know his friend and flatmate was right there, untouchable and evasive.

Although it is wonderful to see his friend in the flesh, to know that John knew he was alive, the only thing Sherlock could feel was fear.

What if John turned him away? What if John rejected him? What if he refused to be a part of Sherlock's life? What if he refused to let Sherlock return?

Mary assumed Sherlock had come at the wedding to propose to John, but that wasn't really true.

Although Sherlock has accepted his intense affection for his flatmate, he isn't sure if he was ready to confess his feelings, much less propose. Sherlock is scared of John simply refusing to listen to him explain his absence; he can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to propose to the poor doctor _now. _

These thoughts are cluttering his mind when he sees John buckle. Before he can process his actions, Sherlock gently grabs John's arm. Warmth fills Sherlock. His body is shaking (damn his nerves, damn his emotions) uncontrollably. He is barely able to restrain himself from pulling the doctor into a hug when John gently releases his arm from his grasp.

A small irrational sting of rejection prickles Sherlock briefly before confusion takes control. He has always hated touching; he avoided it as best he could. The only person Sherlock had wanted to touch before John was Mrs. Hudson, and that was because she was more of a mother to him than Mummy ever had been.

But with John, everything was different. Emotional reawakening aside, Sherlock didn't mind being touched by the good doctor, and he even wanted to return the gestures. He never understood how much a single touch could reassure someone until he met John. He didn't understand how the mere presence of someone could bring such strange comfort; he hadn't realized how mundane actions like making tea could be so soothing, so _right_, until he met the doctor.

This is one of the reasons Sherlock hated John's multiple girlfriends. He loathes that he isn't the only one to receive reassuring touches on the shoulder or the innocent brushing of fingers when John handed Sherlock his tea. Sherlock abhors the knowledge that something so precious to himself was so openly given to random people of little significance.

Glancing at John, Sherlock sees that he hadn't been dating lately. John has been looking better than he ever had before, but that was out of reassurance to his friends rather than a desire to impress someone of the opposite sex. It stood out to Sherlock like the pink lady stood out in the drab dark room of the dilapidated house on their first case together. Everything about this man was so obvious, so _ordinary_, yet he still mystified the great detective.

He sees the single tear cascade from the doctor's eye, and his heart breaks. Sherlock hates himself for causing his friend so much pain, so much grief. He honestly didn't think his death would've affected John this much. As soon as he figured out Moriarty's obvious plans, the only thought ringing in Sherlock's mind was _save John. _Sherlock wants to reach up and wipe away the tear, so much so his hand is twitching, but he restrains himself. Now isn't the appropriate time (would there ever be an appropriate time?).

The couple have finished their vows and left the chapel, taking with them the guests until there was only Sherlock and John. However, Sherlock didn't find this private enough for their inescapable conversation, so he gently took John's hand and led him out of the chapel and into one of the small empty offices.

Sherlock looks away from the ornate desk and into his flatmate's emotion-filled eyes. It is time.

* * *

**I couldn't resist dragging this out a little longer. The next chapter will have them actually talk; don't worry. **

**BTW THE OFFICIAL USA AIR DATE OF SERIES THREE IS JANUARY 19, 2014! :D **


	6. The Reunion

**Thank you so much for reading this! When I started writing this drabble, I didn't think it would get 100 views, so seeing 500+ before I began writing the next chapter was mindboggling. **

**I kept avoiding the actual reunion because despite knowing exactly what I want to happen, I am afraid that I will not be able to portray it in a way that is realistic to the show. This is an attempt at creating a realistic reunion. Hope you enjoy! :) **

******* Sherlock's perspective/thoughts are bolded, **_Johns are italicized. _**The italics within the quotation marks are meant only as emphasis. Sorry if the transitioning is awkward. ***********

* * *

_John looks at the man standing before him. For the first time in three years, he only feels one thing. Incomprehensible anger. He cannot believe that his best friend is alive; he cannot believe the one man who knew him better than anyone would lie to him like this. _

_He doesn't punch Sherlock. He knows better than anyone that the detective doesn't care about his body, so he simply musters an apathetic glare and stony silence, pushing his growing curiosity away. _

"You have to know. You must know. Everything I did was for you." Sherlock blurts.

"You _had_ to lie to me?"

**The look John gives him shakes Sherlock to the core. The apathetic mask slips momentarily, revealing the anguish Sherlock knew was present but hadn't witnessed. In that moment, he wants nothing more to hold his shell-shocked friend. The only thing holding him back is fear. He doesn't know what would be appropriate in this situation- no one in his life had ever cared much for him. No one, except for John, would've been grieving for years after his death. **

"It would not have appeared real had you been informed of my actions."

"What about afterwards? Why make me suffer for _three years_?" _John__ hates the waver in his voice, loathes the emotion that snuck into his words. _

"You were in constant danger. Moriarty had snipers ready to kill you if I didn't jump. Afterwards, I was fearful for your safety, so I never told you." **Sherlock ****doesn't mention that while he had wanted to go home earlier, the mission was supposed to last for a few more years. He doesn't think he could tell John he hurried just to see him. He gulps. He wants more than anything to turn around, but he cannot look away from the doctor. **

There is a pause, both men thinking so many things they are afraid to say. After a few minutes of avoiding each other's eyes, Sherlock speaks again. They resume their staring at the other, equally desperate gazing as Sherlock explains his false death and the three years spent eliminating Moriarty's web.

_John still cannot believe that Sherlock is standing in front of him. His hand twitches, yearning to reach toward the man and feel flesh rather than smoky air. He hides his hands behind his back, unconsciously mirroring Sherlock's stance on the roof as he feigned ignorance of Moriarty's plans. _

"Why did you do all of this?"

"Pardon?" **Hadn't he already explained this? Didn't John see how much he cared? **

"You never really stated why you had to fake a suicide."

"Moriarty said he had people ready to shoot you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade."

"Ah." _John__ can't help letting contempt and anger peak out from behind his mask of indifference once more. _"So it wasn't for my protection then? It was merely to, what, repay us? Saving Mrs. Hudson because she is your _landlady." He mimics Sherlock's tone as he refused to go with John to check on her before the fall. Of course now he knows that Sherlock knew it was fake, but it makes the detective wince and that makes him feel a little better. "_Saving Greg because he provides you with cases. Saving me because I am socially acceptable as a sounding board whereas your skull is not."

"_No._" **Sh****erlock starts at the sound of his own voice, overflowing with desperation and regret. He sees John look puzzled before returning to indifference. Damn his pride. **"No. That is not why I jumped."

"Why did you jump? To save an _ordinary _man like me?"

"Because I care about you!" Sherlock screams.

"But aren't you supposed to be a high-functioning sociopath? Aren't you supposed to be unfeeling?" _Of course Sherlock isn't. John knew this more than anyone, but his mouth reacts before his mind to the startling emotion in Sherlock's swift denial. _

"You know me better than anyone, did you really believe that?" **Sherlock**** doesn't bother hiding his emotions any longer. The hurt that overwhelmed him at John's angry retort leaves him breathless. For the first time in his life, he wants his emotion to be seen. He wants John to see the true extent of his feelings. **

"Obviously I didn't know you well enough."

"You know me better than anyone ever has and ever will! Why can't you _see_?"

"I don't know Sherlock, why don't you tell me. Maybe it's because I'm an idiot?" _John__ knows he is being ridiculous, knows he is being unreasonable, but he can't help releasing some of his frustration. Did Sherlock really care about him? Was this fear of losing the only person who told Sherlock he was brilliant, or was it something more? _

"You are not an idiot," Sherlock snarls. "You are extraordinary. You should be dull like everyone else but you aren't. You do the mundane and ordinary things everyone else does; you are predictable yet gloriously mysterious."

"So I am a puzzle to keep you entertained when you get bored."

"_NO._ You changed me. I was a sociopath before I met you. If Moriarty had threatened Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson's lives, I wouldn't have jumped. You- You awoke something in me. I never cared before you came into my life. After you came, I started _feeling. _I enjoyed having you around because I enjoy being _with _you. I came to see Lestrade as a friend. I allowed myself to care more for the lady who rescued me from the streets. When that American attacked Mrs. Hudson, I felt more anger than I had ever felt in my whole life. And it was all because of you. In a world where I wasn't accepted, deemed freakish and a pariah, someone came and showed me affection. You showed me that caring isn't a disadvantage. I faked my own death not only to save people I possessed newfound feelings towards, but also to protect the only thing in this world worth living for!" **Sherlock**** glances at the floor, then back up at John. He feels the heat in his cheeks and body shaking but he ignores them, searching his flatmate's face. **

_John didn't realize Sherlock cared this much. He didn't realize how much Sherlock cared about him. He hadn't known he had this much of an impact on Sherlock's life. John allows the indifferent mask to disappear. He lets his overwhelming emotions fully reveal themselves to the detective. _

"Did you ever see me?"

"I went to every graveyard visit once Mycroft let me know you were going on a monthly basis."

"Did you hear..."

"Everything."

"Oh." John looks away from his flatmate, heat flooding his cheeks.

"I don't think I have ever been more thankful for Mrs. Hudson in my whole life."

_John realized with a start that Sherlock wasn't talking about his confession. He nods, his mind a jumbled mess. The anger has melted away, leaving behind confusion and fear. Why was Sherlock acting so weird? There was something off, but he couldn't figure out what. _

**Sherlock meant what he said. When he heard John talk about his failed attempt at suicide, Sherlock almost revealed himself to John then and there. **

"Wait, you said you went to every visit..." John trials off, uncertainly.

"You always thought I was an apparition." Sherlock murmurs. "It was awful seeing you look at me, thinking I was there, and then watching your face fall as you told yourself it was just your imagination."

"Yes, well it was hard seeing you every time I went to the graveyard. I thought I was going insane."

"Glad I could prove otherwise." Sherlock quips. John chuckles quietly.

The tension dissolved into uncertainty. The men were stubbornly avoiding each other's eyes.

_Did he miss my confession? Is he going to ignore it? John is perplexed. Although he wants more than anything to avoid the inevitable rejection (why did he have to love the one person who would never love him back?), John needs to get his feelings out officially. This past year had been slightly easier for him, most likely because he finally accepted his feelings, and he doesn't want to go back to pining over Sherlock in secret. Either the detective would kick him out, or allow him to stay but reject a romantic relationship. In some ways, it was easier when Sherlock was dead. _

_He immediately takes his thought back. Life without Sherlock was hell. _

**Sherlock is frightened. He is afraid that his actions to save John's life would drive the doctor away. Sherlock knew that regaining John's trust would be an issue, but would there be other things lingering awkwardly between them? Were Sherlock's feelings unrequited after all? How was he supposed to address the issue? For the first time, Sherlock regrets not paying enough attention to social convention; he has no idea how to appropriately apologize to John. **

"So you heard everything I said to your grave?" John questions, voice wavering though his face betrays none of his anxiety.

"Yes. I-I thought that..."

"Thought what?" John takes a single step closer, concerned.

"I thought you weren't gay." **Sherlock is filled with hope all from the tiny shuffle forward. He inwardly winces at his not-so-subtle inquiry. **"That was insensitive. I apologize."

John blinks, shocked. "Well, it's alright. I'm not gay."

"Oh." **Sherlock looks down, crestfallen. He knew that John wouldn't be able to take him back. Sherlock understood. He scolded himself for hoping otherwise. Although he no longer entirely believed that caring was not an advantage, it certainly is horrendous at the moment. He turns away from John, not wanting the man to see his heart breaking.**

"Wait!" John comes closer, grabbing Sherlock's arm. "You didn't let me finish. I am not gay; guys are not attractive to me. Neither are women. Not anymore, not when there is only one person for me."

**Sherlock cannot believe his ears. His feelings were not unrequited, but how was he supposed to let John know this? **

_John is slightly relieved, his confession is done. The last negative emotion, fear, now grips John as he waits for the inescapable rejection. _

"Look at me." Sherlock cups John's face, gently tilting it up. "What can you deduce?" Sherlock softly asks, tilting his head forward.

John leans towards Sherlock, and their lips meet. Sherlock's hand cups John's neck, pressing him closer, while John's arms wrap around the detective's waist. The chaste kiss soon morphs into open mouths and dancing tongues. It's clumsy and awkward, yet so _right_. Neither of them would trade this for anything in the world.

When they pull apart, blushing and sporting ecstatic grins, Sherlock grabs John's hand, both of them seeking reassurance that this is reality.

"I am sorry for hurting you, John."

"It's okay Sherlock." John smiles reassuringly, and Sherlock relaxes slightly.

"We are okay?"

"Yes."

Everything isn't fixed, not by a long shot. But it is a very good start.

They kiss one last time before leaving the room, hand-in-hand as they go to the reception.

* * *

**Was it okay? Again, I apologize if the transitions are awkward. Thank you so much for reading this! **


	7. The End

**So this is the end! Sorry it has been so long since I last updated, I have been busy lately and I had severe writers block for this particular ending. I am still not quite satisfied with it. **

**Thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following! ****:) **

* * *

Sherlock steps out of the room, his hand still clasping John's. He glances at the doctor, feeling as though everything that happened is just a dream, and their eyes meet. As if he could read Sherlock's thoughts, John squeezes his hand reassuringly. They share relieved smiles, and continue walking to the reception.

More time had passed than they thought; half of the guests were gone. No one paid much attention to the men as they walked in. The few that were sober enough to recognize them stopped the reunited couple for what Sherlock called "idle chitchat."

It is surprising how _normal _things were between them; Sherlock finally understood why people had always assumed them to be a couple. He is amazed that something so monumental, so _obvious, _was missed by the detective while _Anderson_ had seen it.

When John and Sherlock made it to the bride and groom, Sherlock felt like he had been loitering in the crowd for years. Useless jabber still echoed throughout his ears; how could John put up with it?

Greg and Mary are the quintessence of happy newlyweds; they can't take their eyes off of each other, drinking the other in as though they don't have a lifetime together. They break apart only when Mary notices John and Sherlock.

"Is everything okay?" Lestrade hesitantly inquires.

"It's a start." John replies, looking up at his detective.

Sherlock nods. Mary beams at them, and Lestrade's face softens in relief.

"We found out last week; it was shocking to say the least." Lestrade states, slightly rubbing his knuckles.

"You gave Sherlock the split lip?" John said, incredulous. Sherlock looked at the ground, pride welling up at John's simple deduction.

It was Lestrade's turn to look embarrassed, though he refused to apologize.

"Will you return to Scotland Yard?"

"Will I be alone?" Sherlock turns away from the happy couple, facing John. _Will you still stay with me? Will you still be by my side? _

"You would be lost without your blogger." _Of course I will stay by your side, where else would I go? _

Sherlock smirks, staring into John's eyes for a moment longer before turning back to Greg. He smiles back before continuing his rapturous gaze at his bride. The men stay for a little while, John wishing them a happy marriage and Sherlock abstaining from spouting statistics on the success of such relationships (though only for John's sake does he hold his tongue).

After this is done, they leave the reception, walking much like they did after solving their first case together. Before, there had been an air of curiosity and a sort of newfound kinship as they left the crime scene of the cabbie. Now, the gap built during Sherlock's absence was tangible as they exited, bridged only by their newfound love for the other.

Sherlock hails a cab, the familiarity of the gesture filling both of the men with happiness. The ride is in comfortable silence, the men staring at each other as if in awe of the other. The cabbie awkwardly clears his throat, but they don't acknowledge him.

They arrive at the flat, Sherlock paying the glaring cabbie, and John bounds up the stairs and into the flat, collapsing in his chair. Sherlock follows, his excitement equaling the doctor's as he reaches for his violin. He begins playing a melody infused with happiness and hope. His body moves of its own accord, swaying as he pours his soul into the music.

John watches Sherlock, enraptured. If the detective's eyes were open, the way John was staring at him would've made him stop playing and hold the doctor. With every note, John felt his heart swell. He had missed this so much, missed _Sherlock_ so much.

He knows the road to recovery is not one of speed or comfort; rather, it is one of frustrated screams and awkward silences.

Yet, in that moment, he knows it is worth it; he knows that he will do whatever is necessary to mend their broken trust.

Love conquers all things; thankfully, there is plenty in 221B Baker Street.

* * *

**Thank you again for reading! This has been so much fun to write! Did I do alright? The end feels a bit awkward to me, but maybe that is just because I cannot write happy endings well. **

**Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! :) **

**Feedback is much appreciated! **


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